The reality was that we plowed through a few tables full of non-kosher grub and did more carousing than platoon of pirates rescued from a desert island.
So it was that with slaked thirsts and sated appetites, we headed back to the oasis that was the, ahh, salubrious accommodation that the clichéd "someone who will remain nameless" had organized for the punters. This motel turned out to be somewhat less than the relaxing resort as portrayed on the internet. (I know; it's a shock, but there's a first time for everything). To paraphrase one of the Queenslanders: Nothing says 'ambiance' like a hand-lettered sign on the neighbouring room that reads: "Staff, could you please clean up all the used syringes from around the back"…
That said, the crackheads gave us a wide berth; it wasn't quite like turning the light on to a kitchen full of cockroaches but it was mildly amusing the way they all fucked off back under the fridge or wherever it is they hide.
Anyway, some scant hours later there was, to coin a phrase, a new dawn to hail. It was gig day and the weather gods couldn't have blessed us with a better one.
The ominous intro to their set got the old hairs standing on the back of the neck. If you haven't had to pleasure of seeing the boys play, they pump out a powerhouse set and would have to be rated one of the hardest rocking bands in the world-wide RAC scene.
All the classics got a play; "Free", "Pillage and Plunder", etc. as well as some covers, including a little known ditty called "88 Rock'n'Roll Band". I must have heard that song six million times but it always stays fresher than a cattle truck with a new coat of paint.
As usual for gigs it took a little time for the crowd to relax and let their hair (what there was of it) down but the wives and girlfriends of the band (hi J., L. and F.!) showed no such reticence. Absolutely nothing to do with a couple of sneaky pre-gig aperitifs, I'm sure, haha…
The lads have a stage presence that'd be envied by many another band; Deaths Head Jesse only needed to be signing nekkid groupie boobies to enhance his rawk god status; HotRod had a little Charlie Watts aloofness going but might just have been 'cos he couldn't read the song list in front of him, and Fozzy's dulcet tones would have given the neighbours nightmares. That bloke must have the lung capacity of a silverback.
As before, I'm not going to bore you gentle readers with a lengthy song list, but it seems the lads have, after a twenty year hiatus and with copious inspiration from the malevolent muse of White Power music, knocked up a batch of new tunes that The Wiggles are still dubious about including on their next dvd.
Anyway, I digress, but personally it brought back some great memories seeing them belt out some of their older classics: "Nightrider", "Ape-man" and the best song Elton John never sung and the tune that was voted Worst Song of the Year by makers of over-stuffed footstools: "Kill The Poofs".
For the younger readers out there who may not know, Open Season released those songs in the late '80s and they were, at the time, just about the most blatantly racist and offensive songs a shekel could buy and lead to the band achieving near-legendary status in places like Germany.
Put simply, Frontline Fighters was one of the worst recorded and mixed albums in RAC history, but each song is an absolute gem in its own right. Why that album never made the Tel Aviv Top 40 remains a question for the ages.
This, belatedly, brings us the conclusion to the evening; those consummate communist crushers; aka: The Commieknockers. If you've never heard of these guys then you must have been living under, err, are not alone. They're a cover band who belt out enough pro-White and skinhead classics to give an anarchist angina. (Coincidently, angina is a word remarkably similar to another which describes anarchists of both genders quite succinctly).
In the meantime, if you're hankering after some more B&H action, check out Radio 28 Downunder: Speaking of which, Scuba Steve asked me to tell folks that there is absolutely no truth to the rumour that the long-suffering Mum of 28 Australia's very own radio superstar, Moonbeam, was congratulated by the obstetrician for giving birth to a beautiful, bouncing grumpy old man.